Winterfell, the Great Hall.
A bitter wind howled outside Winterfell's ancient, thick stone walls, lashing against the tall, narrow glass windows.
Inside the hall, thick oak logs crackled in the massive stone hearth. The flames radiated enough heat to push back The North's chill, yet they could not dispel the cold and heavy atmosphere that hung in the air.
Robb Stark sat upright in the broad seat his father, Lord Eddard Stark, had always occupied. The chair still felt too large and imposing for his thirteen-year-old frame.
Beside him sat his younger brother, Bran, his clear eyes filled with confusion and unease.
Standing nearby was an elderly man, Maester Luwin.
Eight long tables in the center of the hall were covered with mead, beets, roasted onions, venison, apple-stuffed goose, and black bread.
Around the tables, the vassals and lords who had answered the Stark call from all corners of the North stood or sat. Their armor gleamed, their cloaks varied, each emblazoned with the insignia of their house.
The red-and-silver gauntlet banner of House Glover, the great black bear banner of House Mormont, the flayed man banner of the Dreadfort, the moose banner of House Hornwood, the battle-axe banner of House Cerwyn, the towering Three Sentinels banner of House Tallhart, and the terrifying banner of the Shattered Chain and Roaring Giant of House Amber...
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and burning charcoal, but more potent was the oppressive feeling of a storm about to break.
Robb clutched several crumpled sheets of parchment in his fist, knuckles white from the pressure.
He had just finished reading aloud two messages from King's Landing in front of all his vassals, his voice strained to contain the volcanic fury building inside him.
The first was a decree from King Robert, countersigned by the Small Council.
In cold, official language, it announced that former Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, had been imprisoned in the Red Keep dungeons for high treason.
Lord Eddard was accused of harboring and raising Jon Snow—the "bastard" born of the late Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark—with treacherous intent.
The letter commanded Winterfell to immediately dispatch a message to Howland Reed at Greywater Watch, instructing him to swear allegiance to King Robert.
Additionally, the letter warned that any aid given to the "traitor" Eddard Stark and his house would be deemed an act of treason against the Iron Throne.
The second letter was an urgent dispatch from Lady Catelyn via messenger raven.
It detailed her abduction of Tyrion Lannister at the Crossroads Inn, followed by Lord Tywin's march into the Riverlands and the atrocities committed by his troops—murder, pillage, and arson.
The letter mentioned the siege of Riverrun, where Lady Catelyn's father, Lord Hoster Tully, and her brother, Edmure Tully, were struggling to hold their ground.
The contents of both letters exploded like twin thunderclaps in the already tense hall.
Dead silence.
Only the crackling of the hearth fire and the howling wind outside the windows could be heard clearly.
The expressions of every northern lord froze—shock, disbelief, rage, suspicion...
A whirlwind of emotions churned in their eyes.
Robb sprang to his feet, his youthful face flushed crimson with fury. The blue eyes he'd inherited from his mother burned with icy fire.
He held the letter aloft, his voice thick with agitation:
"Treason?! Harboring a bastard?! Plotting treachery?!"
Robb's voice rose sharply:
"They say my father, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North—a man who lived by honor, who valued his oaths above his life—committed treason?!"
He slammed the letter onto the long table, scattering its pages.
"This is slander! A complete and utter lie! A conspiracy from the Iron Throne!"
His chest heaved as he swept his gaze across the assembled lords.
"Robert Baratheon imprisoned my father because he revealed the truth—that Renly Baratheon murdered Lord Jon Arryn to seize power. My mother detained Tyrion Lannister only to uncover the truth about Bran's attack. And what did the Baratheons, Lannisters, and Tyrells do? They threw my father into a dungeon with these vile lies!"
Robb's voice brimmed with youthful ferocity and insulted fury, tinged with the unmistakable ache of his father's imprisonment.
He refused to believe the accusations from the Iron Throne, his mind fixed solely on marching south to rescue his father.
His direwolf, Grey Wind, had lain quietly at his feet until now. Sensing his master's fury, the beast lifted its massive head, a low, threatening growl rumbling from deep in its throat. Its ghostly green eyes swept the hall, causing some of the timid attendants to step back in fear.
Beside him, Maester Luwin's cloudy eyes were fixed on Robb, his brow furrowed. He seemed to want to speak, but the weight of the moment made him swallow his words.
Robb's accusations crashed like a boulder into a calm lake, sending ripples through the room.
Lord Rickard Karstark slammed his fist on the table, sending cups and plates scattering.
"These southern bastards!"
His beard bristled, his eyes blazing. "Lord Eddard is the Lord of the North! How dare they slander him like this? This is an insult to every house in the North! We must march south and show those scum, with sword and blood, that the North never forgets!"
As Eddard's old friend, his loyalty was unquestionable, and his fury burned hottest.
Lord Wyman Manderly wiped the cold sweat from his brow. "This... this is terrible. Lord Eddard... treason? How could that be? And that boy... Jon... Snow..."
He was clearly shaken by the explosive revelation about Jon's lineage. His eyes flickered, weighing the potential impact this news could have on House Stark's reputation and the political storm it might stir.
The Glover brothers, Galbart and Robett, exchanged worried glances.
Galbart spoke in a low voice. "Anger won't solve anything. If we march south, we'll be pitting ourselves against every house in the realm. They hold vast armies. Reclaiming Lord Eddard by force won't be easy. We must first verify the truth... and see if there's any room left in the King's stance."
Lady Dacey Mormont, standing six feet tall and slender, spoke next. Her mother, Lady Maege, had answered Lord Eddard's call and perished in the waters off Bloodstone Isle.
Her sharp gaze swept the room and finally landed on Robb. "The truth? The truth is that Lord Eddard is imprisoned. The Warden of the North has suffered this outrage. Are we to sit here debating whether the King's stance might shift? Bear Island may be small, but I, Dacey Mormont, am ready to fight for House Stark!"
Lord Helman Tallhart and Lady Lyessa Flint remained silent, their brows furrowed.
It wasn't that they lacked loyalty, but their lands were remote and barren, their strength limited. The tremendous cost and risk of war made them instinctively uneasy.
They needed clearer leadership and a better chance of victory.
Among all the reactions, Roose Bolton was the most composed, even cold.
Dressed in a plain gray woolen cloak, his face was pale, his lips thin and nearly bloodless. His eyes, so light they were nearly colorless, resembled two pools of ice water, betraying no emotion at all.
As Robb raged with fury, Roose merely lowered his eyelids slightly, as if admiring his pale, slender fingers or the fine stitching on his cuffs.
When the shocking news of Jon's lineage was revealed, his nearly colorless pupils contracted imperceptibly, then returned to their usual, dead calm.
He neither leapt from his seat like Karstark nor panicked like Manderly.
He simply sat quietly, like an uninvolved bystander.
When the clamor of anger and argument had finally died down, he slowly lifted his head and spoke in a voice soft as a whisper, yet clear enough for all to hear:
"Lord Robb, your anger is justified. The fate of Lord Eddard is a disgrace to all men of the North.
Yet rage is the privilege of the young. As your advisers, we must prioritize prudence. If the allegations in the letter about Jon Snow's lineage prove true, we must consider an alternative course that avoids open conflict..."
He trailed off, leaving a pause filled with meaning.
Roose Bolton was reminding everyone that the charges of "treason" against Eddard weren't entirely unfounded. At the very least, they gave the Iron Throne "factual grounds" to exploit, making any attempt to rescue him all the more complicated and politically risky.
The best solution, he implied, was to hand Jon Snow over and end the farce once and for all.
The room quickly grasped his meaning, and murmurs began to ripple through the crowd.
Seeing this, Robb frowned, about to speak.
Just then, a booming, coarse voice, full of impatience, rang out like a clap of thunder, drowning out all other discussion.
"Enough! Enough of this endless dithering!"
...
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